


God, He's Such a Loser

by YouLookGoodInLeather



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alcohol, Anxiety, Cassian Whump, F/M, M/M, Major Character Injury, Panic Attacks, Suicidal Thoughts, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 09:45:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12724218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouLookGoodInLeather/pseuds/YouLookGoodInLeather
Summary: 'He’ll keep on lighthousing her storms. But maybe one day, she won’t need him to.'___________________Where Azriel is the one who waits behind the scenes, and Cassian puts on one hell of a show.





	God, He's Such a Loser

Cassian does not go in search of darkness. 

Or, at least, he doesn’t think that’s why he’s out here at 2am on a midwinter night; It’s hard to tell when your blood is more vodka than crimson. All he knows is there’s too many walls back there, too much too close and how can anyone  _ breathe _ ? Everything’s spinning like he’s fainting from this restriction round his throat, but each time he grapples to save himself his stupid, clumsy fingers reach to find there’s nothing there. 

He’s just being an idiot. 

Chuckling, he stumbles; He plays the role of clown so well. A bow to the audience of the empty street, a tumble for that extra laugh. His grand finale is one he’s worked on for dozens of nights, his pièce de résistance: a tripping down into the gutter. Too bad the others are back inside, missing yet another spectacular performance. Too bad he left them to their cuddling in the library, reading on the sofas, their chatting and laughing- left the minute he felt things getting bad. Too bad the performance isn’t meant for those he cares about.  

Too bad there’s a too familiar pair of boots walking up the sidewalk to him. 

No amount of scrabbling can gift him with an escape; his limbs, strong machines that they are, vicious creatures that have ripped apart so many, they’re useless now. He can’t even stand. He can’t even fucking stand. Those legs of his might as well be as fucked as his wings. First he lost flying, now this. Figures. What he’s earned. What he’s getting.

What he’s got. 

Black boots stop before him. He wishes that just this once they’d kick him whilst he’s down. It’s too much fucking effort, this self-destructing business. Got to do everything yourself nowadays. Can’t get the fucking staff. Can’t- still can’t breathe even down here. 

Guess his lungs are leaving him too. 

“What happened?” The boots ask. He doesn’t know. He never fucking knows, not until it’s too late and maybe he can look back in retrospect and say, ah yes- Ah yes, he’ll say, nodding and confident and with the spectacular ability to breathe. Ah yes, someone blinked and something broke. Their smile snapped my ribs. The walls were wrong; someone built them caving in. Those fools. 

Those bastard fools who can breathe. 

Boots shift. A chest appears, two arms, wings - unscathed, unbroken - and a hand more burns than flesh. Another broken body. That’s what they’ll call him. Look at him the way they do Az, like he’s some kind of victim, like he’s some kind of monster, like he’s anything but himself. 

He’d say ‘fuck you’, but there’s no air for words. He tries to suck it out of the road, the cobbled street below, but its cold, perfectly smooth surface offers nothing. It’s all too close, most of all that hand upon his hair. “Come on, we’ve got to get you up.” And it tries, the hand really tries, pulling him up by the jaw, but it’s making things worse. Now there’s a body sharing this shrinking space with him and there’s no way there’s enough air for the both of them. There’s no way- he can’t-

The hand doesn’t leave even when he’s sobbing into it, even when he’s a mess; Even when he’s anyone but himself. He knows a name, a someone like himself who has jokes wielded at his fingertips and insults for no one but himself, but they slipped away sometime around dinner, retiring for the night. The hand isn’t seeking that man though - it’s here and it’s gripping him and he wishes he could disappear. 

Those monster hands take him by the shoulders and take him high and take him home, a townhouse shadow whom he guesses tonight doesn’t count as ‘people’. Or maybe they’re just both kind of drunk and it’s that, it’s the drink that makes everything seem like something else (like monsters), and ah yes- Let’s say it’s just the drink. 

“Please,” he begs Azriel on his knees. 

“You’re just saying that ‘cause you’re drunk.”

He sinks further in the bath. “You know that isn’t true.” 

 

*

 

The smile he gives the girl matches the new day sun. She ice glares back at him, but it’s a storm his nights understand. So he takes Nesta’s hands and vows to help her weather it all. 

And he does not ask it of her.

He’ll keep on lighthousing her storms. But maybe one day, she won’t need him to.

 

But maybe one day, Az will let him kill himself. 

  
  
  
  



End file.
